


Rehearsal Dinner

by orphan_account



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Going to the Chapel, M/M, and we're, gonna get ma-a-a-rried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: If you want to marry Prince Charming, first you have to *rehearse* marrying Prince Charming.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 258





	Rehearsal Dinner

Nora is so hyped about the whole thing - the wedding, the pre-wedding, all the outrageously outdated minutiae and superstition involved in-between - that Alex thinks he might break out in hives if she sends him one more voice note reading aloud from some godforsaken Wikipedia page about historic royal bedding ceremonies, or the proper gifts for third wedding anniversaries ("It's _leather,_ Alex. Now, let me think, what might a sprightly young couple like you and Henry require that's made out of _leather._ ").

June has taken everything in her stride and has made some particularly satisfying colour-coordinated charts over the past six months, which is why she's allowed to sit in the corner of their bedroom while they get ready for the evening. Nora had turned up an hour or so ago in a thrifted wedding dress and threatened to "really _say_ something" when the congregation were asked to speak or forever hold their peace; Henry had taken one look at Alex's face and managed to hustle her politely back out of the door before he spontaneously combusted.

Alex is finding the whole concept of an actual wedding stressful beyond belief, but despite the excruciating complications and whys and wherefores of having a British royal wedding take place in New York, Henry keeps acting like he's living out the happy ending of the world's gayest Disney movie. It's mildly infuriating.

June was ready hours ago, and is ignoring them both, resplendent in a buttery gold dress as she annotates seating charts from the antique rocking chair by the window. Henry, tanned and golden-haired after a summer split between France, London, DC and the Hamptons, slides his jacket on in one quick flourish while Alex frowns at him.

"Everything you do is so smooth. You look like a - I don't know, like a Sim."

"Have you ever seen how a Sim moves?' Henry asks incredulously, his expression suddenly much more serious than the subject requires. "They're not smooth, they're like broken robots - sometimes they forget what they're doing for a while and just stand there until they remember they're supposed to be acting like people."

"You did that yesterday, Alex," June says, not looking up from what she's writing, a lightly-chewed pencil resting on her lips. Must be one of Nora's.

"I - I what?" Alex replies, squinting at her dubiously while attempting to put a bow-tie on one handed. He stops and glances down at his phone, realising that if he just puts it down then the tie might become less of an insurmountable obstacle. A news alert has come through, something about voting reform; he forgets about the tie and pulls up the article.

"You just did it!" Henry cries triumphantly. "You just - you were getting dressed and then your computer overlord told you to check your phone. You're a Sim."

" _You're_ a Sim," Alex says indignantly, going to put his phone away and trying not to be in the least bit charmed when Henry steps forward to tie the damn tie for him.

"I think we've established that you have no idea what a Sim is," Henry says sweetly, finishing up and giving Alex a vaguely condescending kiss on the nose. "Come on. Let's go before you spot an obstacle between you and the door and have to spend the rest of the night standing behind it and shrugging."

*

The Met had been Henry's idea originally. Alex had accused him of only knowing what the Met was because of _Gossip Girl_ , and Henry had replied "I doubt it it has greater cultural or historical relevance beyond being the place where Blair Waldorf ate frozen yoghurt." There had been an argument about whether or not Alex was Blair, and in that case, whether Henry was Serena or Jenny. In the end, he had been allowed to be Nelly Yuki.

The only difference to the outside of the building tonight is the hordes of security, the barriers put in place to hold back the crowds; they wave and smile, Henry insists on walking the barrier even though it requires five PPOs to flank him and sets off a wave of quickly-relayed scheduling updates that make Alex's head spin, and then they're inside. It's a different story in here; even though the ceremony isn't until tomorrow, the pillars are already decorated with so many tumbling flowers that they look like strange, unearthly waterfalls. The entire layout of the hall seems to have changed; if he squints, Alex can just about see where the main desk should be, but it's suddenly impossible to imagine hordes of tourists in here, poring over maps and swinging their backpacks where Nora is currently standing, talking to one of the designers about the centerpieces. She has, thank god, changed out of the wedding dress and into something blue and iridescent.

She spots them and makes a beeline; Henry squeezes Alex's shoulder, which feels less like support and more like a warning not to be a complete asshole.

"What do you think?" she asks brightly, and Henry is charming and enthusiastic while Alex attempts a smile and looks instead like he has indigestion. Which, to be fair, he does.

"It's pretty classy," June says.

"The Daily Mail is going to be furious that it isn't outrageously camp. They were probably hoping for karaoke vows and compulsory drag." Henry is glowing, grinning around at it all like a kid on Christmas.

"It's not my fault you nixed all my best ideas," Nora says, pouting.

"It's fine. We're blending in. The theme is internalised homophobia," Alex says, and June laughs.

"I don't know if that can be the theme of a wedding between two men," she says, and Alex sighs.

"Jonathan Van Ness _begged_ me to wear a dress, June. He got down on a red carpet and begged me on his _hands and knees_. Certain members of staff thought it might be too much."

"I wondered what he was doing to you in that photo."

The wedding planner - neither June or Nora got the official title, although both have certainly decided that they hold the same authority - comes over and starts talking to the others about some drama with the florist; Alex is watching somebody on a stepladder hang a delicate string of lights, focusing on how slowly and carefully they unfurl each length of wire before pinning it precisely into place, and doesn't realise he's tugging nervously at his collar until Henry reaches out and puts a gentle hand over his fingers, forcing them to still.

"Let's see where we’re having dinner,” he says firmly, and they head north-west towards European Sculpture and Decorative Arts.

Alex had argued for the Sackler Wing - the dark pools, the temple, one minimal table set up on the dias with candles everywhere - but Henry had suggested that it might look a bit too Biblical, and Nora had told him that people already thought that he and Henry were the gay presidents of the Illuminati without having their rehearsal dinner between two giant statues of Amenhotep III. Instead they had opted for Gallery 548. Plenty of natural light for a dinner at sunset, understated grandeur, and a striking resemblance to a particular scene in _Pride & Prejudice_ (2005) that Henry had been visibly giddy about when they had first stepped inside to consider it. 

It doesn’t look particularly understated now; whatever magic has been spread all over the entrance hall has been applied liberally here, too. Somehow they’re changing the shape and feel of the room with light; the sculptures are glowing as if lit from within, and Alex has to restrain himself from reaching out to touch one. First Son or not, some grim-faced curator will still probably appear from nowhere to clear his throat and tut menacingly at him. Nora leads them on a tour of the finer features of the long dining table while June checks place settings with the planner, and then a flurry of activity from the staff signals that guest arrivals are imminent. Alex bites his lip and barely notices that Nora is saying something to him until Henry elbows him in the side. 

“She’s asking you if Taylor Swift is still coming.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t - I don’t know,” Alex says, and Nora looks worriedly at Henry. 

“Right, come on,” Henry says suddenly, taking Alex by the elbow and steering him up the room. They take a right and it’s like walking through a portal into another time; they’re in the Boiserie from the Hôtel de Cabris, recreated in all its 18th century splendour. Alex is momentarily distracted by the gilded panelling; Henry tugs him closer by the lapels, slides a hand up the back of his neck and kisses him softly, effectively pulling him out of 1774 and into the moment. All the tension melts out of his body and he leans into Henry, breathing in the smell of him, suddenly as comfortable as if they were standing alone in their own room rather than inside a Neoclassical masterpiece. 

“Better?” Henry asks when he pulls away, and Alex nods. “What’s going on with you? You’re not getting cold feet?” He nudges one of Alex’s shoes lightly with his own, but Alex knows he isn’t joking. 

“It’s - it’s a lot,” Alex says finally, exhaling. Henry rolls his eyes.

“Well it was always going to be very simple, very casual. Princes of England marry the sons of Presidents every day.” 

“I still - I don’t know. Maybe we should have waited. Until 2024, I mean.”  
  
“I didn’t want to wait. We said we didn’t want a long engagement, that we wanted to get married in the summer. Did you want to wait?”  
  
“No,” Alex says miserably, stepping away from Henry, inspecting the solid gold clock on the mantelpiece. 

“I know you’re suddenly _fascinated_ by French design, but could you come here and tell me what the matter is, please?” Henry says, and he actually sounds upset, which stops Alex in his tracks. He turns and faces up to it, faces up to Henry, who looks painfully beautiful in the low light from the chandelier, like he could be one of those sculptures out in the hall. Maybe he _should_ have a sculpture made; Henry has the face for it, the _body_ for it. Probably too much for a wedding present. 

“Nora and June say I’m a hopeless romantic,” Alex starts, and Henry laughs. 

“We all say it. We say much worse behind your back, in case you’re interested.”

“Oh, thanks,” Alex says, and then tries again. “I liked the - I liked the _romance_ of the proposal, of the forever of it all, but a wedding is like - it’s an _institution_ . I’ve got Nora calling me up to tell me that I need to wear a veil so you can’t see me and change your mind before we say ‘I do’, I’ve got June telling me we’re ridiculous not to do vows, the press secretary is fielding a thousand barbed comments a day about the _institution of marriage_ and _family values_ , and I just - stupidly, I thought this might just be about you and me.”

“Oh, Alex,” Henry says, pulling him into a hug. “That _was_ stupid,” he murmurs into Alex’s curls, and he tries to feel indignant about it but the hug is too embarrassingly soothing. He feels like a baby. Babies can’t get married.

“What if somebody shoots you,” Alex says, his voice muffled by Henry’s shoulder. “What if somebody shoots us both. We’re this big, gay target tomorrow, and what if someone comes in with a gun and I’m up at the altar clutching your lifeless body, dying unattractively over you, like - like in _Romeo + Juliet_ .”  
  
“They don’t both get shot in _Romeo + Juliet_ . Juliet takes a sedative and Romeo poisons himself - and _then_ Juliet shoots herself. So just don’t … do _that_.” Henry says, and somehow it’s strangely comforting. 

“I still want to marry you,” Alex says quietly, and Henry pulls away from the hug so that he can tilt his head and smile fondly at Alex in a way that still makes him feel so irresistibly, improbably lucky. 

“Thank God, because we’ve hired the entire Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Henry says, and Alex laughs. 

“It’s called the Met, Henry. Nobody calls it the _Metropolitan Museum of Art_ . Are you from _another country_?” 

“Sort of. Same murderous forefathers,” Henry says, and he turns Alex around and puts his arms around him so that his back is pulled firmly into Henry’s chest and they’re both framed in the ornate mirror. “It’s not just about us,” he says, speaking to Alex’s reflection. “It was never just going to be about us. In some ways it’s awful, but in other ways it’s wonderful. It’s massive. It’s _history_.” Alex smiles at Henry in the mirror despite himself. “I can’t promise that we’ll have an intimate day of celebration - I couldn’t stop the damned camera crews coming to broadcast it live, BBC America are having a _field_ day - but I promise you this. Ninety percent of the day is for everyone, for the whole fucking world. But ten percent is just for us. You won’t know it until you see it, but it’ll be there. For a moment, it’ll just be you and me.” 

“You and me,” Alex says, and he looks at Henry and thinks about how far they’ve come, about the life they’ve built in New York, about everything they’ll do next year once his mom’s second term is up; he thinks about that night in the residence when she asked him how he felt, if it was forever. He finally truly has an answer for her, for the whole world; but especially for Henry. He’s so sure. He’s so sure he’s going to sign a goddamned legally binding contract, and let them sell commemorative plates with his and Henry’s faces on them. The wedding is a lot, but it’s just a day; then they get to be Alex and Henry, forever. 

“Well … you and me and Nora,” Henry says, biting his lip. “I was going to wait until after the wedding to tell you this, but I _seriously_ think she’s going to ask us if we can all be in a thruple. You know I find it _extraordinary_ difficult to say no to her ..." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
